Voltaire
(#13876478)
One may wander far from home...
Familiar
Scorpio
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0
out of
50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Nature.
Male Ridgeback
This dragon is on a Coliseum team.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
21.87 m
Wingspan
16.94 m
Weight
8068.93 kg
Genetics
Ice
Cherub
Cherub
Midnight
Butterfly
Butterfly
Grey
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Ridgeback
Max Level
STR
118
AGI
13
DEF
5
QCK
73
INT
5
VIT
5
MND
5
Biography
Voltaire
Clan Leader
 Relationships: Mother: Icewarden Father: Starseeker Mate: Elliar Friends: Falenas, Tarquis, Fractal Acquaintances: Raniean, Tethys Favored Items: 
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"To belong nowhere is a blessing and a curse, like any kind of freedom" History : Voltaire was found injured and lost only a few days after the Clan was formed. No one knew why or how he had ended up amongst the gnarled brambles of the Tangled Wood. The only two things that were known was that the young dragon had green eyes— one of the Gladekeeper’s lieges-- and that the situation could not be taken lightly, as all those nearby could feel a deep sense of unease settle into their hearts should they try to move away from the struggling Ridgeback. This unease lead the clan’s former leader, Kindralth, to take the young dragon back into his lair. For the next many days, Kindralth prayed to the Shadowbinder over what to do with his newest charge. At first, there was silence. Then, after nearly a week a solemn prayer, a tendriled darkness began to swirl within Kindralth’s mind, bringing with it the call of the Shadowbinder. She ordered him to keep the fledgling and raise him as one of his own. Kindralth was aghast. Why would his God allow a dragon of lesser heritage to join in her ranks? Despite his hesitation, he obeyed. They named the dragon Voltaire, and gave him a spot within the clan. His first many years were spent tunneling in an effort to expand his adoptive clan’s lair under Kindralth’s less than gentle guidance. Any time that was not spent working or running errands for Kindralth, Voltaire used to study the multitude of artifacts and treasures he found whilst tunneling. Ancient relics and mystical tomes became his most valued possessions. From these relics he began to teach himself the ways of the ancient world, unlocking magics long forgotten to the majority of those alive today. Along with these magics, a strange sense was awakened within him— a sense which beckoned him to explore the realms beyond the blackness of the Tangled Wood, and unlock the secrets hidden within every corner of the world. These interests were kept mostly to himself, as Voltaire knew that his prized possessions would be taken from him, should anyone— especially Kindralth— come to know about it. Life continued like this for a long time, until one night during his nineteenth year, he stumbled upon the bleeding figure of an injured Wildclaw. The Wildclaw appeared to be nearly his age, but small and thin compared to the other Wildclaws he had seen during his lifetime. At first, he knew not whether the Wildclaw was dead or alive. He crept cautiously to the dragon’s side and found that it was indeed alive, if only barely. Concentrating his own internal energies, Voltaire managed to heal the Wildclaw enough to where it was able to regain consciousness and speak. It introduced itself as Elliar, a nomadic Wildclaw who had been traveling eastward when he was attacked by a territorial pack of Umbra Wolves. Voltaire was weary at first, immediately awash with unease the moment he noticed the color of Elliar’s eyes. Red. The color of the plague. Being a nature dragon himself, he was acutely aware of the history shared between their Elemental Gods, and their fight which once consumed most of the world around them. Still, something was different about this Wildclaw. Despite his lineage and his element, he was surprisingly adept in terms of eloquence. Although still unsure about the situation, Voltaire invited Elliar to come back with him to his adoptive clan. Voltaire knew that Kindralth would not allow another dragon of a different element into his clan, but he knew that he could not leave the Wildclaw here, for he had not fully recovered. While Kindralth and the rest of the clan slept, Voltaire snuck Elliar into the lair, and down through the deep, twisting, underground chambers. His years upon years of tunneling proved their worth. He had created these halls, and knew them better than anyone else in his clan. Quickly finding a hidden vault in which to house Elliar, he told the Wildclaw to stay put until he returned. He climbed back up to the main halls and gathered a few supplies before returning to the underground chamber. There, he continued to nurse Elliar until the Wildclaw was back to full health. Over time, he learned more about Elliar, and came to find that he had fled his home and had spent the last many years traversing the lands of the world. His own desire to explore the realm grew ever stronger with each tale that Elliar recounted from his travels. Voltaire also came to understand why Elliar seemed more skilled with words than the other Wildclaws that he had met. Elliar’s wanderings had lead him to encounter so many different kinds of creatures that an an extensive knowledge base and proper speech patterns seemed an absolute must. The two became good friends, and Voltaire’s initial apprehension about Elliar’s lineage dissipated. As time passed, it became increasingly difficult for Voltaire to sneak extra food for Elliar from the clan’s horde without anyone noticing. A decision was made between the two of them that they would have to sneak out during the night and hunt for their own cache of food should they wish to continue to go undiscovered. Fighting was often difficult for them as Voltaire was woefully inexperienced, and Elliar was far from good at it. Time and dedicated efforts payed off, however, and before long, the duo was able to take down many a beast and face most obstacles undeterred. Their combined knowledge was used as a terrifying advantage when it came to taking on new challenges. It was good for a time, and it is looked upon fondly by both of them, but as is the natural order of life, things change. |
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Though often aloof, Kindralth was far from stupid. He had begun to notice subtle changes within Voltaire’s actions, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. One night, Kindralth followed Voltaire into the murky depths of the underground chambers. Creeping silently along, he observed Voltaire as he descended ever further into the caverns. He watched as Voltaire paused outside of what seemed to be a dead end before carefully pushing away a stone slab in the wall, revealing a hidden door. While Voltaire entered the room, Kindralth stood quietly by the door, blending in with the shadows of the cave. Within the chamber he could see thousands upon thousands of ancient artifacts that seemed to glow with the energy of their own imbedded magic. He also heard voices. One he knew to be Voltaire’s, but the other he could not place. Either way, he had all the information he needed. His liege had been sneaking behind his back, collecting personal possessions, and housing alien dragons right under his nose. He would not get away with this. As silently as he had arrived, Kindralth left, snaking his way back up into the main chamber, and waiting until Voltaire returned from the cavern’s depths. A sinister plot had begun to brew within Kindralth’s mind, and he would see it through be it the last thing he do. In the wee hours of the morning, Voltaire returned to the main chamber. The other dragons were still asleep, and Voltaire supposed that he may as well try to get a little bit of sleep as well. He settled down against the far west wall and fell into a comfortable slumber. Meanwhile, Kindralth cracked open the first set of his four eyes. He had already conveyed the plan to his mate, Cirilyth, who agreed that taking action against Voltaire was the perfect punishment for his perceived crime. Once they were sure Voltaire was asleep, they slunk silently across the cavern, and readied themselves to attack. Kindralth struck first, claws ripping into the unarmored flesh of Voltaire’s abdomen. The Ridgeback jolted awake and tried to defend himself, but the onslaught of his assailants was too great. He could only hope for a swift demise. By now, the other members of the clan were awakened by the noise caused by the skirmish. Much to Voltaire’s dismay, they did nothing to aid him, and only stared blankly in a vacuous, if not slightly amused silence. But suddenly from within the depths of the caverns below, a great cry rang out, startling all the dragons present into an uproarious panic. The abrupt cacophony distracted Kindralth and Cirilyth just long enough for Voltaire to escape the reaches of their claws. The roaring from the cave grew louder until finally one could see the source of the noise. Elliar, enraged and silhouetted against a pulsing surge of red energy. The spirit of the Plaguebringer had awakened within him. He rushed into the cavern, beelining for the leader and his consort. The other dragons scattered and took flight as Elliar clashed with Kindralth and Cirilyth, falling upon them like the plague itself. From his huddled position, Voltaire could hear the sounds of battle. The pained cries of Kindralth and Cirilyth, and the vicious shrieks of the only one he had ever been able to call a friend echoed in his ears. He needed to get up. He needed to help Elliar. However, the fight sounded strangely distant, even though he was near certain that it was taking place right next to him. The ground beneath Voltaire felt warm and sticky, and his conscious mind began to fade. As his last breath exited his chest, a sudden swell of energy rose from his lifeless body. The energy hung in the air for a moment before vibrating and flashing brightly. It seemed to be warring with itself. The struggle itself is unknown, but the outcome quickly became apparent. The energy bolted back in to Voltaire’s body, torn flesh mending instantly and lifeless limbs once again becoming strong. A new spirit stirred in his chest, and he knew he held the essence of the Gladekeeper within him. With his energy renewed, Voltaire joined the fight once more. With Elliar by his side, the two fought with deadly precision. Teeth and claws met flesh and almost as soon as it began, the fight was over. Kindralth and Cirilyth lay dead on the floor of the cavern, and the other dragons were long gone, presumably never to return. Voltaire and Elliar took in the destruction the fight had caused; much of the original clan’s horde had been destroyed, as well as most of the cavern’s inner walls. A strange sense of calm fell over them. They realized in that moment just how important they had become to one another. Each finding an odd sense of comfort in the fact that they were willing to risk their lives for each other, and knowing that the other would do the same. It was decided there, between the two of them, that they would not leave each other’s sides, but instead would depart from this harrowed place, and form a clan of their own. It was agreed that Voltaire would become the leader of the clan, as he was the one who had taken Elliar in during his time of need. His hospitable nature lead to a rapid growth in the clan’s population, and he now serves as a kind and benevolent leader. _____________________________________________________ Currently : After the deaths of Kindralth and Cirilyth and the destruction of the original clan’s lair, Voltaire and Elliar left to find a home of their own. But as they journeyed, they found that they rather enjoyed the nomadic lifestyle, as it catered to Voltaire’s love of exploration and Elliar’s need to have a sense of freedom. They decided that they would not permanently settle, but would instead traverse the lands of Sornieth in pursuit of its secrets. While they expected many things of their journey; danger, discomfort, and hardships; they never expected that there would be so many others who shared their thought and their need to explore. Wherever they went, dragons of a similar mind would follow. Eventually the number of followers reached such a number that they could officially call themselves a clan. This group of dragons, now known as the Wanderers of Sornieth, is led by Voltaire. Although he doesn’t always see himself as being best fit for leadership, he still tries his best to guide his clan to a brighter future. Personality : At first, Voltaire may come off as a bit stern and cold. However, once one gets to know him, they find that he is actually warm hearted and adventurous. His initial sternness stems from the fact that he wants to be a good leader and mentor for the rest of the clan. While he would mostly like to be out exploring, he understands that the needs of his clan must come first. He often neglects to take care of himself when trying to care for others, so other members of the clan often worry about him. Voltaire is also an excellent fighter, though he prefers to resolve any conflicts peacefully. However, he is always more than ready to take up arms if it is for the sake of those he loves. 
Art by FallingFreely
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 Strengths: Benevolent, possesses a lot of patience, subtly optimistic, keeps on going even when others have given up, fiercely kind and loyal to those he loves Weaknesses: Often doesn't know when to give up, might not realize that he's putting himself or another into a dangerous situation because of his enthusiasm and determination Likes: Learning about the world, adventuring, discovering things that no one else has seen before Dislikes: Being confined, not being able to solve a problem, unnecessary acts of violence Familiars: 
Battle Abilities :
Listen to playlist x
    
Art by fourwing
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Other Info:
Age: Young Adult Birthplace: Inym Taesi Residence: Cairnstone Rest Alignment: Lawful Good Enemies: LeafBlood, Cain 
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STR ████████░░░░ INT ████████░░░░ AGI ████░░░░░░░░ |
MAG ██░░░░░░░░░░ CHA █████████░░░ VIT █████░░░░░░░ |
Tonight he’d woken with a start, but he quickly quelled it. What had woken him up? He listened for the calming sound of Elliar’s breathing and couldn’t find it – was the sound drowned out by the wind outside? Had Elliar woken up too, and was holding his breath to listen for another noise? No – no, it wasn’t a sound that had woken Voltaire. It was the opposite. The world had just gone suddenly too quiet and too still. Why? A threat outside? Or just a lull in the weather?
“Elliar?” he murmured, his tones still sleepy. “Are you awake?” But there was no answer, and suddenly he grew much more specifically nervous.
He musn’t thrash. He mustn’t move too suddenly to extricate himself from his mate and go investigate. He was too big, too jagged, too thorny with his claws and crags. With the strength that had once let him endure Kindraith’s cruelty, the patience and affection that had brought him down such a long and winding path each night with his old clan, the stern stoicism that had let him forego sleep for Elliar’s sake, Voltaire forced himself to hold still.
He must hold still, so as not to wake Elliar or catch his delicate wing-membranes on Voltaire’s own spines. He must hold still and see if Elliar would stir.
But he didn’t.
Perhaps that didn’t need to be too alarming. Though he was a staunch protector and a skilled fighter now, Elliar still instinctively played dead sometimes. Something in the Wildclaw’s bones had not forgotten the moment when the Umbra Wolves finally gave up their worrying of his prone, wounded body. Something inside hadn’t forgotten that stillness had saved his life. When others were under threat, he’d keep his feet and keep his head, even throw himself in front of the threat with an athletic spring. He’d stand before the menacing gale with such strength that he seemed rooted – an inappropriate metaphor, maybe, for a Plague dragon, but apt nonetheless – a strength that belied his comparatively slight frame. Still, he’d curl into a ball sometimes when badly frightened. Especially when he thought someone was angry at him (and Voltaire knew that Elliar’s subconscious regularly served up cruel images of Voltaire’s rejection and disappointment. He’d comforted him after many such dreams).
Surely that was all that was happening. Surely at any moment he would move.
He didn’t move.
“Elliar?” Voltaire whispered into the awful waiting silence. “El? Please?”
Slowly, Voltaire had to let himself recognize the fact that Elliar was as cold as a buried artifact in a barrow. He was lying as still as the first toy of Voltaire’s that Kindraith had ever broken to punish him. As still as Voltaire had lain when his belly was ripped open and his fate seemed terribly certain. And slowly, he realized that the blood-smell wasn’t the last whiff of that so-common, so-terrible memory. His long, horned nose was detecting more than the scent of his own nagging fears. He could smell blood. Almost-fresh blood.
And this time – he was suddenly sure – this time it was Elliar’s.
“Elliar, wake up,” said Voltaire, his face feeling unmanageable and stiff, his throat thick with that dreaded smell.
Humble Elliar rarely accepted help with the injuries he picked up in battle. Even Voltaire wasn’t sure if this was caused by his mate’s deep, inescapable shame – he couldn’t imagine being worth the effort of tending, even to the clan members who loved him and would have given him anything he asked for – or if Elliar was protecting everyone else from his blood, just in case the pestilence of the Wyrmwound were still thriving in a stray, sticky drop. But he didn’t want to be protected himself. He didn’t want to be sheltered. So he’d acquire cuts and scabs and scratches, little wounds and large ones, the souvenirs of a hundred hostile clans who hadn’t welcomed the Wanderers to their territory – and had underestimated their Sentinel’s battle prowess.
Voltaire had always been a little afraid he’d rip Elliar’s skin with his own spines and not even realize that he’d caused the injury, rather than some stray thorn or minor accident with a whetstone in the course of the Sentinel’s day. When Voltaire was molting, this anxiety was more maddening than the itch – and all the more pronounced because Elliar was always eager to help, scratching the itchiest spots with his dexterous claws and rubbing soothing balm into the newly exposed skin.
But this … this was more than a minor scrape. Voltaire couldn’t quite focus his emerald eyes on the form of his mate. Something seemed to be preventing him from seeing clearly, and his thoughts flowed as slowly as the simmering, infected mud that Elliar had described in the landscape of his birthplace.
As slowly as the blood. Elliar was lying … lying very still. Lying in a pool of blood. A great lot of blood. His blood. And the margins of the dreadful, sticky puddle were scratchy and faded like ancient carved letters, jagged where Voltaire’s spines had dragged through the drying fluid and smeared it across the floor.
No. “No,” Voltaire whispered. No.
It was taking Voltaire forever to think anything at all, and longer than forever to be able to move, but his eyes tracked the blood and he was immediately able to match each smear to his own spiky features – these little scratch-marks were from the spines on his neck, those from his ankles, that raking smudge from his wing-tip. And the wide, tacky swath, just there, that must be from his horn … but it was far too close to Elliar’s unprotected chest … and Voltaire’s eyes followed the mark inward with increasing horror.
Elliar’s hands were drawn close to his abdomen, the defensive hug that he always slept in, even when Voltaire held him close, as though he were trying to soothe himself in anticipation of some terrible future grief. His powerful hind legs lay together in the sticky wash of red, the feet neatly folded, the massive hind claws hooked together. All this was ordinary, but he was posed against a carpet of thin, clotting, cooling gore. And his wings were ripped, his flanks slashed, his throat – oh, no, no, his poor eloquent throat – pierced through the center with an all-too-neat puncture that led to a horrible red darkness deep inside.
Frantically, Voltaire laid shaking claws on Elliar’s body. “El,” he said, the single syllable fading into a dry sob when he saw that his quivering hands were shredding Elliar’s shade-colored skin even further. Blood welled slowly, so slowly, up through the razor cuts that Voltaire’s claws left in Elliar’s hide.
It wasn’t just his claws, either. His own spines and spikes seemed sharper, somehow. His horn was getting in the way, obtrusive and unwieldy and pushing Elliar’s body away from him, and surely it hadn’t always ended in quite such a wicked point? But he managed to make contact and reached frantically for the grace that had once let him heal the torn and bleeding little Wildclaw from the very brink of death –
– and there was nothing.
He was reaching into a void that smelled of blood and loss and rawness and there was nothing. The magic he’d learned in the spare moments of his miserable youth had deserted him, the knowledge vanished with Elliar’s breath. There was no healing to be had there. Only the empty gape of his suddenly hollowed heart, a heart that felt like it had ceased to beat as he realized that Elliar’s was not beating.
Because Voltaire had hurt him. He’d damaged his precious mate. Worse than damaged; he’d destroyed him. Elliar was gone.
Wild thoughts crowded Voltaire’s mind. He found himself bargaining desperately with – with the Gladekeeper, or the Plaguebringer, or fate, or nothing. He’d tear off every one of his own spines, rip the mane off again if it grew back, if only the tears in Elliar’s precious skin would heal. He’d give every artifact and text he’d ever had or borrowed or kept, if it would bring Elliar back. He’d never hurt Elliar again; he’d be so careful. He’d do better. I promise I’ll do better, I promise I’ll be good, his brain babbled. I promise I’ll be careful. I promise I won’t hurt him.
But it was too late.
Voltaire had known a staggering clarity once in the aftermath of death. When he and Elliar had looked about them at the destruction of the lair Voltaire had mostly dug with his own claws, at the tumbled walls and the scattered possessions and the cooling body of Kindraith lying torn and oozing on the floor, he’d felt a deep, preternatural calm. He’d known what had happened. He’d known what to do. But that had been with Elliar there at his side, with the power of their warring deities still beating in their allied hearts, with Elliar, with a path forward, with Elliar.
Now Voltaire was looking at a destruction far smaller, but too awful to contemplate. No clarity came. No calm. No flare of green light or of red. No new strength. Only agony, only horror, only blood, only no no no no NO –
Even after he woke up, Voltaire couldn’t stop screaming.
Nightmares Written by: MagpieScholar
Voltaire looked up from repairing a rip in his shirt. They'd been training in one of the unpopulated regions of the Foxfire Brambles, and had paused in a small clearing for a few moments' rest.
"What is it?" The ridgeback asked, smiling softly. Glowbugs had been one of the few things he remembered of his birth-flight, hoards of them rising on the summer evenings and twinkling through the jungle like a rippling ocean of stars. He couldn't recall if the thought was just a dream or some distant memory from before the Tangled Wood, but it was nice.
"That's what I was gonna ask." Elliar replied, watching the little green bug. "There were fireflies in the Scarred Wasteland, but they didn't look like these."
"It's a glowbug. Same family, if I remember right… less likely to start a wildfire though. When I was smaller, I'd get a glass sphere and catch a few in it for a night-light. Had to let them go before morning, though..." The clan leader had only caught him with the glowbugs once, but watching the mirror crush both the orb and the little specks of light within it had been enough punishment in and of itself.
Voltaire shook the unpleasant memory away, then laughed as Elliar tried to catch the little bug-
and missed. He watched as as the wildclaw kept trying, barely missing every time he tried to clap his hands around the speck of greenish light.
"Easier to catch them from underneath, if they don't rise above your reach." Voltaire suggested, leaning out and scooping up a different glow-bug that had just risen from the ground. He quickly covered it with his other hand before it could take flight again, and turned to show Elliar his prize.
Elliar, however, had unintentionally stirred a cloud of them from the grass. Voltaire watched the hoard of little stars as they twinkled softly, then glanced at his friend. Elliar was standing stock-still, awe written on his face.
After a moment's thought, Voltaire released the glowbug he'd caught so it could join its fellows, then watched with a grin as they rose up into the trees and dispersed.
"That was…" Elliar trailed off with a faint smile.
"Incredible." Voltaire finished, nodding. "We should probably get back soon… maybe another night we can come hunt glowbugs for nightlights."
Glowbugs Written by: Voidspeaker
There’s a whisper of hostility on their makeshift border. Although enemies fade, they never die, and Elliar knows this better than anyone, knows to keep their guard raised even as they carve out places of peace in the wild lands that they roam. He does his best to keep from seeing shadows every time he looks over his shoulder, but it’s hard, these days, when rumors of darkness and plague rustle again and again. So when another word of plague or serthis shakes itself from the dust and the dirt, he is the first to hear it, the first to feel his protector’s instinct flare with concern. He’s better at hiding it now, shielding the rest of the clan from his worry, but still, he takes note. Next morning they’ll head north, while he scouts whatever it is that follows them. He hopes that it’s nothing, but he knows better.
Of course, when he tells Voltaire of his plan, to send the rest of the wanders on without him, the Ridgeback does not even consider it for a second. “No,” his mate tells him, in no uncertain terms. There is a firmness in Voltaire’s voice, a knowledge of all the things that haunt Elliar, the calm and grace and conviction of a leader. “You’re not doing that alone.” Elliar’s impulse is to protest, to insist that he can do it, that he can be the one to protect his clan. But something gives him pause. Voltaire knows that Elliar can protect them. It isn’t a simple, thoughtless denial. Elliar considers his response more carefully, knowing this. Knowing that in the face of anything, the two of them trust one another.
He broaches the subject with caution, and care, mindful of the way his mate’s brow is furrowed with worry, worry that he knows is for the sake of both himself and their clan. “It’s not nothing,” Elliar tells him, “But Ciyradyl didn’t have a lot of details, when she came to me. It’s not worth alerting the whole clan, not yet, not before we’ve properly assessed what it is that we’re dealing with. We don’t need a full patrol, love, and it’s not as if I’m throwing myself into any kind of mortal peril. I'll be okay,” he says, but he can see how this fails to soothe his love’s anxiety over it all. “I’ll signal, if I need anything. You’ll know. We’ll be within range. And if I’m within range of you, within the range of all the members of our clan, I won’t truly be alone out there. You know that.” Elliar lets the warmth seep into his tone, the absolute fondness he has for this dragon and for their clan.
Voltaire remains firm. “It’s our responsibility to protect you, too” he says. When he sees the stubbornness flicker in Elliar’s eyes, he breathes slowly and deeply before speaking again. “At least let me accompany you,” he asks, gentleness apparent in his voice. “It won’t arouse any suspicion; we can pass it off as an amorous outing, and the clan can hold their own. There’s always Tarquis, she won’t leave them vulnerable in our absence. You’re right, of course, that the clan is better served by the full guard staying with them, when we’re on the move. But in that case, they don’t need me there either. You wouldn’t let anyone else scout this kind of threat on their own,” he adds, and then the discussion is over, because both of them know it to be true. Elliar doesn’t resent that he’s right. This way, he hopes that they’ll all be safe, even if the threat is as real as he imagines it to be.
“Tomorrow morning,” Elliar says, and Voltaire nods. The tension evaporates into thin air, and each feels the other relax. They perhaps take protecting one another too seriously, love too fiercely, too deeply, too strong. But there are worse faults to have. Elliar lifts his chin in a familiar gesture, an invitation, and the pair come together again, one last night in this place before it is time to wander again. When the sun rises, it will be on a new home, and a new day. Now, though, the dark surrounds them in a blanket of warmth, calling them to sleep once again, to dream away the cares of the day. Beneath the stars they rest, reading themselves for the next dawn to come.
When Voltaire makes his announcement of their plans Elliar has already occupied himself with the day’s preparations. This is partly because they do, truly, need to pack rations and carry flasks of water; although they could go days without meat, neither of them would prefer it. The more compelling reason, though, is because this way Elliar does not have to hear the sentimental excuses Voltaire passes off to their clanmates. If it does end up being nothing, Voltaire will of course have told the truth, and either way their expedition is something loverly. But he does prefer, still, to keep his affections, his amorousness, close to his chest. He is not fond of the way others sometimes coo at their lovebird behaviors, although he knows it is out of a friendly affection of their own. No, packing would do just fine. Small satchels and an herbalist’s bag. Something to pass the time.
Although the stress has long since melted away, there is still an apprehension as they set off, a fear that prickles the backs of their necks and makes them look twice at every bird that passes overhead, at the movement of each dappled shadow. They make small, meaningless conversation, quiet enough that each of them can still listen to the sounds of the wilds around them. Sweet nothings that turn to vapor at the slightest puff of breath. Soft honeyed words, musings on their and their clan’s futures. For a time, all is well, the only other sounds the soft burble of a stream and the gentle birdsong that occasionally flits through the air.
Then they hear it. They both hear it, at once, the crackling of dry wood, the sound of stones being disturbed from their place in the cliffs. Immediately the pair grows still. Instinctually, they both know that the sound has come from overhead, where dried-out bonewood tries cluster in a grove atop the cliffs. WHen they move again it is as one, drawing nearer to the edge of the valley that they walk through, the great canyon opening its wide maw before them. A single, ominous vulture circles overhead, crying out into the silence. They hear it again, the unmistakable sound of another creature moving somewhere up above. Then, against the scavenger bird’s cries, they hear a new sound. A scream.
Heartbeats racing in perfect unison, the pair soar upward, launching themselves powerfully from the earth and catching a gust of wind that sweeps through the valley. They beat strong wings as they hover for a moment, there at the top of the cliffs, facing down the tangle of bonewood, the impenetrable thicket. Elliar is keenly aware of Voltaire behind him, the Ridgeback spreading wide pale wings against the blue sky. And it is Elliar that spies the opening first, the space in between the branches and the brambles. “I can fit through it,” he says, with utter conviction, and then he dives forward without another moment of thought, knowing that this is it, that he can end all of this. Put their fears to rest, if only for a few days. It does not take long for Voltaire to decide to follow, but it takes him longer to weave through the narrow gaps in the trees, the twists and turns.
As for Elliar, he speeds inwards, wings folded back, racing towards the source of the sound. When Voltaire arrives at the center the pair nearly collide. They pause there, just before the heart of the shadowy thicket, the tangle of bonewood branches, tree limbs reaching for them like the sinister fingers of some malevolent deity. Neither of them possesses enough magic to know whether the thing concealed in this cloister emits a dark, sickly power of its own, but if they judge on the basis of the blood-curdling screams, it would be a safe assumption to make. Elliar readies his claws, and Voltaire braces himself, ready to bolster the other dragon alongside him. They breathe as one, and then they charge.
The scream rises to a reckless crescendo as they burst into the clearing, ready to destroy whatever it is that lurks in their midsts, and for a moment they are left reeling, spinning uselessly, searching for their target. Blood rushing in their skulls, hearts beating deafeningly in their chests, lost in the frenzy of it all. But as their ears stop ringing and the fervor begins to fade, they realize that the screaming has come to an abrupt halt.
It is Elliar that laughs first. For a moment, Voltaire is still confused, still searching for the enemy that they must slay. When his eyes refocus in the dark, though, he joins his mate in laughter. A tiny, microscopic goat, so small that is practically impossible to identify in the low light of the thicket, squirms against the confines of a brambly trap, its hooves scraping at the stones beneath its feet. When it locks eyes with Voltaire, it wiggles in its prison, and screams petulantly again. “All this,” Elliar says, gasping for breath between laughs, “For one little goat, screaming so loudly the whole territory can hear. No wonder Ciyradyl thought the place was haunted by a banshee or a ghost.”
“No wonder,” Voltaire says, with a rueful grin. He steps up to the tangle to help his mate extricate the little thing from the brush, gently guiding the goat out of the mess that it has mysteriously managed to make its way into. Some of the branches show signs of having been chewed, to little avail. The goat bleats at them in a manner bordering on brattiness, and it makes its displeasure known through the occasional highly inconvenient squirm, or piercing scream. “Come on now,” Voltaire murmurs, and holds the branches open for just a moment - but it’s long enough for the goat to leap through, and onto the Ridgeback’s shoulder.
Elliar stares at it. “Well,” he says.
“Not a word,” Voltaire responds, as the miniature goat nuzzles into his shoulder and promptly falls asleep. Elliar looks at it for a little while longer.
“Well I suppose we’ve got a good explanation for where we’ve been,” Elliar offers cheerfully. “Does this mean we’re goat dads now?” Voltaire dignifies that comment with a grunt. “If I could be a goat dad with anyone in Sornieth,” Elliar pretends to swoon, “I would be a goat dad with you.”
The pair trek out of the trees together, a new life to protect in tow.
Art by Renepolumorfous
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